


Guess It's Just My Luck

by ordinarily (tofty)



Series: Strange Towns [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Dean's feeling kind of ornery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guess It's Just My Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round two of the blindfold kink meme.

Most of the time, Dean’s all about giving Sam what he wants. They go to restaurants that serve salad, drive past motels Sam wrinkles his nose over. They buy Sam’s laundry detergent, the one he learned to love while he was living with Jess. Most importantly, they fuck anywhere, anytime Sam needs it, in the car, in gas stations, in little residential alleys surrounded by garage doors and trash cans and the faint smell of cat piss. And the truth is that Sam needs it more often than he ever thought he would, even before they started this thing between them. Even though he wanted it a lot, for years before he got it, and it turns out that just like everything else he ever wanted, Dean was only waiting for him to say something to make it happen. And much as he wishes he could control this, he can’t; Sam needs it so bad, sometimes it feels like the only thing stopping him from stuffing himself full of Dean’s dick on a 24/7 basis is that that’s not actually physically possible.

So that’s most of the time. Every now and then, though, Sam needs it as much as ever, but Dean’s in sort of an ornery mood. Just plain contrary, or Sam’s said something or done something to piss him off. Or maybe, like today, he just wants to see how high he can take Sam, whispers and licks at Sam’s ear to get him up without touching him, then straps him down to take what he wants at his own pace. And so here they are. Sam’s wrists are duct-taped to the slats on the headboard, his back arched off the mattress, legs spread whorishly wide, clenching and releasing around the plug in his ass like he can get himself off that way. He’s babbling, too. He knows he is, he can hear his voice, but he can’t quite make out the words over the revving engine sounds of whatever it is that’s driving him right now.

And Dean’s just standing at the side of the bed, head tilted to one side, like he has all the time in the world – and technically he does, because where else are they ever supposed to be, it’s not like they’re expected anywhere – and wants to take his time deciding.

After a minute just standing there, he smirks at Sam. “Sam, do you ever even listen to yourself? I don’t think you do. You’d kill yourself, or maybe me, if you ever did.” This is pretty much true and they both know it. Dean knees his way up on to the bed. “I’m tempted to gag you, save you the embarrassment, but I don’t think you really care right now, and I know I don’t. And I’ve got a better way to stop the talk, anyway.” He swings a leg over Sam so that he’s kneeling over him, facing his feet, Dean’s face over his cock, his cock over Sam’s face, and uses one hand to push his dick down until it’s rubbing Sam’s lips. “Suck it, Sam.”

It’s not like Sam has to be told. He wants the weight of Dean’s dick in his mouth almost as much as he wants it in his ass, and his mouth’s opening before Dean finishes his sentence. He loves this angle, too, sliding straight down without resistance, he welcomes the stretch and pressure as Dean starts rocking his hips, the brush of Dean’s pubic hair against his upper lip and chin on each downstroke, and he gives it to Dean the way Dean likes it best, smooth and strong, the barest provoking hint of teeth. They both moan when Dean finally reaches to wrap his hand around Sam’s dick, tight, not moving, just squeezing, soft and then harder, then soft again, the laid-back rhythm of it sending Sam up and up excruciatingly slowly, till he’s keening around Dean’s dick, so ready to come he can hardly breathe, or possibly that’s just Dean’s dick against his windpipe. And when Sam gets so close he’s gasping with it, not enough air in the room to fill his lungs, Dean just stops, clamps tightly down on the base until Sam’s back from the edge and breathing again, and he gives the plug a little twist before he starts all over again. And all the time, he keeps fucking Sam’s mouth and throat with that steady rhythm, albeit with a couple of stops of his own so that he can back down.

The pattern repeats, again, again, long past the point where Sam’s capable of any sort of speech, before Dean’s hips start stuttering against him, his cock pulsing erratically down Sam’s throat, and when he pulls out Sam follows him up as far as he can with his arms tied, not ready yet for this to end.

Dean rolls up beside him and lies on his side facing Sam. “Well, Sammy, got anything else you wanna say to me?” His voice is teasing. “Anything I can do for you?” He rubs his palm flat against Sam’s belly, and Sam arches up under him, hips twisting, until Dean smoothes his fingers around Sam’s dick and pulls faster, fingers gripping tighter than he has all afternoon. “Just a little longer, you can take it, I know you can.”

Sam feels at this point that he’s been ready to come for his whole life, he’s vibrating and sweating with it, every muscle in his body tensed and ready. But he takes one more round of torture without another coherent word, and when Dean finally does let him come, slicking up his stomach and Dean’s palm, he’s too strung out to come down, tensed up against the restraints, against the plug, against Dean’s hand.

“Hey, Sammy, hey. You okay?” Sam nods, but it’s not true, he’s not okay, he’s trembling, feels gutted, flayed, all his insides exposed to the air. Dean says, “shit,” panic riding his voice, and he’s up off the bed in a second, grabbing for his knife and cutting through the restraints. He doesn’t even bother to strip the tape off, just cuts him away from the bedposts, before he’s gathering Sam in and holding onto him tightly until the trembling slows.

Dean’s the one babbling now, meaningless words of apology and comfort that Sam soaks up silently, easing his way back into reality until he feels capable of sitting up. When he does, he winces at the feel of the plug, still holding him open, still pushing up inside him, and Dean winces with him.

“Fuck, Sam, I’m so sorry, I forgot the plug, hang on,” he says, reaching around Sam. “Lie down for a second and I’ll take care of it.”

Sam shakes his head and grabs Sam’s wrist. “No,” he says in a voice that sounds nothing at all like anything that’s ever come out of his mouth before. “Dean, I liked it, okay, I want to keep it in for a while.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles. “Sam, we should make sure—“

“Seriously, Dean, I want to leave it in.”

And because most of the time Dean gives Sam what he wants, even when Sam doesn’t know he wants it, Dean gives in to him, lies back and arranges them so that they’re on their sides facing each other, Sam’s leg slung over Dean’s hip to ease the pressure. And Dean’s a little freaked out, so Sam waits until they’ve slept and woken and eaten, and Dean’s pulled the tape away from Sam’s wrists with a little patience and a lot of chemical-citrus-smelling solvent, to ask Dean to pull out the plug and fuck him for real.

Which Dean does. Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from The Raveonettes' "Little Animal."


End file.
